Every niche community has its own internal snobbery, and the BDSM scene is no exception. Competitive souls constantly debate who is and isn’t a “TWUE DOMME” or “TWUE SUB”, tangling themselves in rope, whips and the complex terminology of segregation in a bid to prove that everyone else is a comparative novice. The kinkier-than-thou are a staple contingent of the BDSM world.

It’s only natural, of course. People often find themselves seeking acceptance from their own marginalised groups by creating an elitist hierarchy within them: I’ve heard startlingly sweeping racist remarks from a number of first or second generation immigrants towards other ethnic minorities; as a bisexual woman, I’ve occasionally been ostracised by exclusively lesbian friends for dating men; and this weekend, at a fetish stall at Brighton Pride, Sarah Berry and I were prevented from buying a hat.

Yes, a hat! We were victims of hattism!

The hat itself was a leather one, a little like the beautiful Joanna Lark ones pictured below. Sarah has been looking for a leather hat that fits properly for ages, so when she saw the one hanging up at the “JDL For Leather”* stall on Saturday, she was thrilled. Taking out her wallet for the sixty-five quid it cost, Sarah reached up to try it on.

“Want a photo in a funny hat, do you?” the most counter-productive salesman in the world suddenly shouted from behind us.

“Actually I’d like to buy the hat,” said Sarah, bewildered at the stranger’s angry reaction.

“Yeah, yeah! I’ve heard it all before!” He spat. “You’re just taking the piss! Look at you!”

Now Sarah is no stranger to BDSM. She writes for, and edits, several magazines about the UK scene, and I tried to point this out to the stallholder over his sarcastic snarls. Yet he wasn’t convinced by my explanation or her appearance so became increasingly hostile.

“You just want a photo in the hat,” the man accused again, along with a generous shower of spittle. “You’re not a genuine customer!”

“I want to buy the hat,” Sarah answered calmly. “I go to fetish clubs.”

He scoffed. “Oh yeah? Which ones?”

She was then in the surreal position of having to justify her own worthiness to give him sixty-five quid, but patiently and obediently listed the clubs and events she regularly attends.

“You’re lying!” he yelled.

She sighed. There was no reasoning with him. “I just want to buy the hat.”

“You don’t!” he argued, veins bulging at the sides of his bald head. “Look at you! You just want to get a photo in it!”

It was like the famous scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts is refused service in a designer boutique for looking too much like a prostitute – yet here, it appeared to be because Sarah didn’t look enough like a prostitute. This very angry man just couldn’t believe that a small woman in a pink cardigan could possibly want to buy a leather hat.

“Can I try the smaller size?” she pleaded, which seemed to rile him more.

After having listened to him rant about hat photos for nearly five minutes now, our friend Carolyn duly lost patience with him so whipped out her phone and took a deliberately provocative picture of Sarah trying on the hat.

The man turned purple from chin to crown.

“I knew it!” he roared.

“Can I try the smaller size?” asked Sarah again, ignoring the chaos.

“I knew it as soon as I saw you! You’re a fake! You don’t want the hat!”

“She wants the hat,” I reassured.

This was the point that Sarah gave up and hung her head.

“She doesn’t!” he bawled again.

“Let’s just leave it, okay?” Sarah put the hat into his hand and her wallet back into her pocket.

“See!” he squealed gleefully at our retreating backs. “I knew you wouldn’t buy it!”

*(yes, I know, I’m never one for naming or shaming people or companies, but I’m genuinely interested to know whether the man we encountered was having a bad day – were all his other customers that day real or perceived piss-takers? – or is he always such a complete shit to everyone who tries to buy his goods?)